Marguerite awoke with a thump.  She was a passenger on some kind of transport.  It was open to the air and filled mostly with organized bundles of goods, as if to sell.  Hay was strewn about the bottom.  A bale of hay blocked her view of the driver.  She noticed animals in a few small bamboo cages nearby and, upon hearing one make a sound, recognized them as ducks.  Other than the occasional jolt from the uneven road, she found the surroundings quite pleasant.

The road they were on was upon a ridge surrounded by fields.  She could see quite far in every direction except straight ahead.  There she could only see the top of the driver’s head and treetops beyond.

No sea, she observed quizzically.  She stood up to have a farther look.  Still no sea.

Then, as she was looking about, the transport hit a bump.  With this she shrieked and stumbled, nearly falling out.  Grabbing on to a heavy bundle, she steadied herself and sat down quickly.  A voice rose from the direction of the hay bale and the transport halted.

The driver stood and inspected the stranger from a distance.  It was a middle-aged woman, and she leaned forward onto the hay bale dangling her horse whip in front it so the stranger could not miss it.  The driver spoke.  She was almost amused. “When did you sneak onto my wagon?”

“I assure you, it’s not what it seems.”

“If you mean you’re not going to steal anything, I’ll see to that.” The driver glared at her.  Marguerite stood back up, lifting her hands slowly away from the bundles she had used to brace herself.

“Actually, I mean — well, maybe you won’t believe me — but, I’m on a mission from the Queen.”

The driver made several faces, then said, “That’s a new one.” An old woman stood up next to the driver.  The hay bale had hidden her.  She examined Marguerite in passing, then carefully dismounted to stroke the horse.  It whinnied and pawed the ground restlessly.  The driver looked at the sky, as if gauging the time, then down the road either way.  She continued.   “You’re right.  I don’t believe you.  Why should I?”

Marguerite took out the scroll and held it up to be inspected.  The Queen’s shield was printed on one end.  When the driver did not dispute her evidence, she took heart.  “You two are on your way to market, I take it.” She gestured to the contents of the wagon.  “What is your destination?  Am I correct that we are in the region of Wheel?”  With this last question Marguerite’s voice grew incredulous.

“Why are you in my wagon?” the driver retorted, equally so.  “Are you asking me to take you somewhere — on Queen’s business?”

“I don’t know,” replied Marguerite, perplexed.

Wheel was not a seaside territory but the complex of shared land trade routes between the capital and the territories.  Through them and with the help of its residents, she reasoned in a way she had heard her father do, that the various territories of Faithful must exchange goods and services.   Ports are another way to trade naturally, but are often over-crowded, plus the Sea would be prove unpredictable and dangerous.   Wheel and its trade routes would be quite reliable and low cost by comparison.  Territories rarely engaged in trade directly across their borders.  Another of functions of the middlemen of Wheel, as well as the Seafarers, was to provide workable terms of service and agreements.  The royal line had worked out this arrangement long ago.

So, what Wheel lacked as far as meaningful convictions and the label of territory, it made up for in practical terms.  The people of Wheel, both individually and collectively, were orientated towards service and equanimity such that, ironically, their roles were a matter of faith in Faithful.

At least that was what Marguerite concluded as she considered her fate as a stow-away here.  Wheel’s position in Faithful took on new meaning as she considered it was both essential and ethereal.  She had never thought about it before.

For this same reason, she had not expected to visit here as part of her journey.   As she considered her unexpected situation, her main concern centered on what it would mean to trek through Wheel to a destination she could not herself name.  It was proving troublesome to define herself.

She explained her mission to the women, as if they might be sympathetic and console her.

Finally, the hag spoke.  “We use symbols in Wheel.”  Then, alluding to the uncanniness she perceived in Marguerite’s appearance, she added, “Perhaps your invisible guides know better than you.”

Both comments pleasantly surprised the stranger, and her dismay lifted.  “Do you know the symbols well?”

The women looked at each other, unflappable but growing impatient with the dumbfounded stranger. The hag offered a sardonic smile. “Of course, my dear.  We are on our way to market though, as you guessed.”  She said this dryly, a casual retort to Marguerite’s express doubt in them.  “Yet I fear if we don’t get this horse moving very soon my daughter will lash us!”  At this she laughed.  “Sit down.  We are not far.  We can talk there.”  The old woman climbed up and took her seat.  Marguerite wedged herself, seated but with a good view, between some bundles.  The driver sat too and urged the horse on as it and the wagon carried the three the few miles to market.